Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/350

308 In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare,

Till the swoln bubble bursts—and all is air!

Nor less new schools of Poetry arise,

Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize:

O'er Taste awhile these Pseudo-bards prevail;

Each country Book-club bows the knee to Baal,

And, hurling lawful Genius from the throne,

Erects a shrine and idol of its own;

Some leaden calf—but whom it matters not,

From soaring, down to groveling.